Artificial Tears
My mother cried so seldom, she had to buy artificial tears from the drugstore. A vial in her purse ready for her to dispense a drop or two in each arid eye. She always held her real tears behind her throat, voice quavering. I did my own crying furtively, aching for my father, felled by a heart attack, hiding my red eyes and balled-up tissues. Sadness not sanctioned. A face-splash of cold water helped me stanch my grief, but relief was temporary; the source hot and hurt. In hospice, mother kept asking for her tears. I handed her the bottle.
Clara Silverstein is the Boston-based author of seven books, most recently Above the Fall Line, a collection of poems.
Photo Credit: Egisto Sani
Very nearly my own childhood, in your own excellent 100 words. At her end, my mother’s coherence was limited to berating the nursing home staff. “Bring me hot coffee, and if you can’t bring it hot, don’t bring it at all.” I, too, lived in that space of unsanctioned tears.
Enjoyed this. Brilliant
In the heart of a forgotten town, 13-year-old Lola discovered a rusted key buried in her backyard. That night, the wind whispered her name, guiding her to the abandoned lighthouse. With trembling hands, she unlocked the heavy door. Inside, glowing footprints led her down spiraling stairs to a hidden chamber. Ancient maps lined the walls, and in the center sat a dusty journal. “The treasure is cursed,” it warned. Suddenly, the door slammed shut. Shadows danced. Lola clutched the journal, heart pounding. “Adventure,” she whispered, “you found me.” And with a deep breath, she stepped into the darkness… not alone.
Utterly captivating.